


Frankenstein (the without pity remix)

by snowpuppies



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dark, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-New Moon Rising; Oz doesn't make it out of Sunnydale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frankenstein (the without pity remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Gabrielle](http://velvetwhip.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/310817.html).

Blood and veins and arteries, organs of flesh, bone and sinew, long, thin muscles stitching it all together—the human body is _fascinating_. So…organic.

So… _fragile_.

He looks at the body on the table. Pale, quivering, infected. 

It would only take one blow, and this delicate creature, this monster the humans cower in fear before, would cease to breathe. 

Cease to live. 

And yet, there is more. There is an unanswered question and his need to know—his curiosity, some might say, although it's less an emotion than a programmed imperative to fill the blanks in his databases—drives him to act.

He shorts the electrical circuit in his left arm and touches the body; it shudders and ripples and transforms. 

He wants to know about werewolves. 

 

***

 

His breath hitches as he becomes aware of his surroundings. 

He's strapped to a cold, hard stainless steel table, a tray of surgical instruments, power tools and torture devices to his left. 

He escaped. 

He _escaped_.

Terror grips him as his heart races, his lungs struggling to keep up the pace. 

No.

_No_.

"Hello, Werewolf."

He cranes his head toward the voice, catching a glimpse of Frankenstein's Monster in his peripheral vision. He assumed he'd been caught by the Initiative; this might actually be worse.

"I've been programmed to believe it's impolite to leave a greeting unanswered."

He stares. 

He'll wake up any minute.

"Very well." The thing comes closer, selecting a small curved tool and holding it up for a closer look. "I wish to inspect your anatomy while in your alternate form. Would you like to proceed with the change, or do I need to assist?"

Any minute.

"I see."

His eyes pop open as the blue spark of electricity nears his torso; the world goes black.

 

***

 

He begins with an arm—it's less vital to survival, and he's uncertain if the change will remain once the host body dies—shaving away thick fur to reveal smooth, almost rubber-like skin. He catalogs the texture, pinches it between his fingers, pulls and prods to check for elasticity—it seems much hardier than the creature's human skin—before finally reaching for his scalpel. 

He peels away layers of flesh—epidermis and dermis—then slices into muscle and all the way to bone. The muscle tissue is darker, stringier, in a way, the arteries and veins thicker and more pronounced. Bone density is thirty-four percent higher than in a comparable male human. 

_Fascinating_.

 

***

 

His arm is on fire. 

He knows he shouldn't, but he can't keep his head from turning in that direction, nearly losing the quickie dinner from the Doublemeat he'd had before attempting to leave Sunnydale. 

The flesh of his arm is peeled back, pinned into place like a frog in science lab. He's exposed, open to the air, to anyone and anything that might pass by. He's trapped, and no one knows to look for him.

His gaze returns to the ceiling; he stares at the white tiles, and begins his mantra.

Moments later, he stops. The pain is too great, too agonizing to be overcome using meditation. 

He never should have come back. 

His heart lurches in a completely different way when he remembers Willow's smell on Tara, when he remembers her smile— _his smile_ —given to another. 

It was foolish to think he'd be able to sweep back in as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't turned tail and ran, as if he could be something other than the monster he is. 

He prays for a miracle. 

He knows it isn't coming. 

 

***

 

The Werewolf is an amazing creature, such a strange hybrid of wolf and man, rugged and hardy in its construction, elegant in design.

He pets through the thick fur, outlining the shape of the skull, probing into the strangely human-like ears, testing the sharpness of the teeth, the texture of the tongue. He's bitten, naturally, but he doesn't fear the infection—there isn't enough human in him to change, after all—so he presses his fingers deeper, watching impassively as the Were gags and spits and chokes. 

He feels the musculature of the chest, the back, the thighs and buttocks. He probes into the anus—tighter than the human counterpart, approximately seven point one degrees warmer—and presses on the genitals until the penis emerges, red and veiny and slippery at the tip. The creature groans and flexes against the ropes at this, hips rocking up into his hand. 

He does have files on human sexuality—some of which include footage from the dorm rooms—and he is acquainted with all manner of copulation, but he lacks the programming to feel sexual drive. He can function in this capacity, although his phallus is neatly tucked behind a bio-mechanical shield and contains more Fyral DNA than anything else, but he does not feel the _need_ he sees in humans and animals—and demons—alike. 

He watches as the Were humps up into his hand, then back against his finger again. Growls, grunts and howls spill from its mouth, muscles bunching and rippling against the restraints.

It's so uncontrolled, so desperate, so… _primal_.

He's not sure whether he finds it disgusting or incredible. 

He's startled from his thoughts when the flesh in his hand begins to swell; glancing down, he realizes the creature is about to knot. He knew this happened in canine breeding, but is surprised to learn it translates into this wolf-human hybrid. 

He notes the conclusion in his database.

The Wolf howls as warm pulses of ejaculate splash against his hand and mat the dark fur. 

He sniffs the strange fluid. 

It's all very interesting. 

 

***

 

He blinks awake, blurry vision slowly resolving until he can make out the figure hovering over his torso. 

The monster looks up—"Hello"—and greets him before turning back to his task.

The pain is so constant, Oz barely notices it anymore, but he peers curiously as the monster's green-skinned hand draws back from his body dripping red with blood. Craning upward as much as his bound limbs and exhausted muscles will allow, he catches a glimpse of his abdomen, and wishes he hadn't. 

He's splayed open, skin stretched like an obscene, gaping mouth, his organs on display. 

"I'm simply examining at this point. There's no sense in removal as I have more data to collect. I don't wish to terminate you prematurely."

"That's…comforting." His head flops back against the table. 

He's going to die.

_He's going to die_.

 

He wonders where he'll go, after.

If Willow will be there someday.

If it will even matter.

 

***

 

He's studied the contrasting anatomy of both the human and Werewolf forms, cataloged his findings, and has learned a great deal about Werewolf sexuality. He has one last test to administer before beginning the more in-depth harvesting and dissection of the organs and tissues; he can't wait to study the brain under a microscope. 

He hadn't even intended to conduct this last experiment. It's only due to the convenience of certain new associates of his, as well as a certain… _whim_ of his to see how two particular species of demonic infection would interact that even brought the thought to mind. 

He's becoming impulsive; he wonders what Mother would think. 

Either way, she's dead, and he has no one to please now except himself. 

He takes a vial from the tray next to the subject, swirling it gently to re-integrate the components into a dark, sluggish mass. Opening the Were's mouth, he dumps the contents inside and sits back to watch the reaction.

 

***

 

He jerks awake as his flesh leaps from his bones, his body jerking and arching away from the table, muscles seizing. His stomach contracts and bitter bile mixed with the metallic taste of old blood dribbles down his chin.

Throwing his head back, he screams, guttural, primal; he feels as if his flesh is consuming itself, skin dissolving muscle eating away at bone. 

His head jerks back and forth— _no, no, no, NO_ —and if he thought the pain from earlier was bad, there's not a word for this. 

His lungs refuse to expand and his heart skips a beat, then two, then seizes up, seeming to squeeze so tightly the muscle ruptures and the fluid leaks into the tissues, out into the body cavity, dripping from the gaping incision in his gut. 

His bones twist—strangely familiar, and yet, not—fingers and toes lengthening, legs re-forming, skin sprouting hair. It's all the same, he's felt it for years, but then his skull splits, and his forehead buckles and ripples and his brain is going to explode and he can't take it anymore and he wants to die. If he had breath, if he knew for sure he still had a tongue, a mouth, even a _face_ , he'd beg. He'd cry and plead and do anything— _anything_ —to make it stop.

And then it does.

 

***

 

_Exquisite._

He searches his memory for an alternative word, but the one he's happened upon truly fits the bill. 

He marvels at the creature stretched out before him—his work, his creation, his… _magnum opus_ —at the dark coat of fur, the long, tapered claws, the bare, ridged forehead, yellow eyes and extended fangs. 

He suddenly knows how Mother felt, when she programmed life into his mechanisms, watched him breathe, speak, think. He is a creator. He is fulfilling his destiny. 

His child stirs. He watches, a simulacrum of tenderness rising in his chest, as it blinks. Inhales. Gazes into his eyes.

"What…did you do?"

"I have made you into a masterpiece."

"What?"

"You are my first child, born of wolf and vampire. You will stand by my side in the coming conflict, the first of my soldiers to wage this war."

"No. I'm not like that."

"You cannot be otherwise."

"You don't know me."

"I made you."

"I won't."

"You will." A shout rings out from the chamber above. He caresses the pale ridges on his new child's brow and whispers, "Hush. I'll return soon."

He strides toward the exit; the perimeter has been breached.

 

***

 

He shudders, tears falling from his eyes; he tries to blink away the reddish film—he's crying tears of blood. 

_God_. He _is_ a monster. 

Despair pulses in his gut, shooting up his spine and spreading through his brain, a numb terror filling his body.

He doesn't even have the promise of death. 

And there's nothing left to fight for. 

But he'll be damned if he lets himself become like that creature, like that monster that's tortured him and warped him and flayed him, literally and metaphorically. 

He will not. 

_Will. Not._

Fury envelops his senses, a raw howling growl erupts from his maw, and he lunges, combined werewolf and vampire strength too much for the ropes that once held him captive. Limbs weak from exertion and exhaustion, guts spilling to dangle around his knees, he scrambles for the tray, clumsy fists scattering tools as he reaches for his salvation.

_He. Will. Not._

His left hand finds one tool while his right finds another; he doesn't hesitate to plunge the stake into his chest, slipping between the ribs unerringly. 

His vocal chords tear as he screeches in pain and his body seizes and he slips to the floor, landing in a puddle of blood and vomit. 

Still alive, his spasmodically firing synapses tell him, and he clutches the silver scalpel until it burns through his skin and into the muscle.

He's past the point of pain. 

He just wants it to end. 

Breath hitching, he gathers his strength…and plunges the knife into his temple.

White-hot agony sears the wound and he prays for it to be over.

Through the haze of pain, he thinks he hears a voice. The sweetest voice he's ever heard— _not his, Not. His._ —calling his name—"Oh God, Oz!" — but the pain is fading, and he can't feel his limbs, and then the world fades away…

 

…and he rests. 

 

 

 

_FIN_.


End file.
